I heard a joke today that I will share to with you only to get it out of my head. I pre-emptively apologize for this one.
"How do you get a dog to stop humping your leg? Pick him up and suck his dick."
I was so shocked, I couldn't help but laugh. I married the guy who told me that joke. This amazes me sometimes.
Anyway, I was going to write this blog about motivation last week. I am supremely glad I didn't because the hypocrisy would have been astounding. My X has no follow through, right? We covered that? Guess what...neither do I. Thank you, glass houses moment. yeesh. Granted, I had every reason to be pissed at him but the whole time I was avoiding stuff that I was supposed to be doing (and not long term doing but way short). I still haven't done some of it yet. Having realized this, I am less inclined to murderous tendencies. I'll let the killing go in hopes that I don't get killed myself for similar fuckups.
So, I was pretending to be motivated then realized I am very not. The Mimosa tree for example...it's a mess. Half the roots are hacked all to hell and the other half I go out at look at from time to time. As if my dead stare could inspire their demise. Thank god THAT doesn't work.
I am doing a group therapy thing now. I don't know if I like it. For the most part I think therapy is a beautiful thing. You can learn a lot about yourself; it's like your own personal archaelogical dig. Fascinating. You know what I don't want during group therapy? I don't want to suddenly realize I am the smartest person in the room. That fucking sucks. I had that moment last week when I had to list my weaknesses and strengths. Number one weakness: procrastination. Number one strength: intelligence. The leader dude said I was so smart I should know better than to procrastinate. Really? You're an idiot.
Procrastination doesn't have anything to do with how smart you are. There are plenty of people who's IQs hover somewhere around today's high temperature who manage to accomplish their given responsibilities on time. If he doesn't know that, I don't know how I can take him seriously. It would be like trying to lose weight with a fat group leader.
I am 37 now and still navigating the waters of grown up responsibility. Sometimes I feel like I should know better by now, then I remember the moment when I was 16 and my mother was sewing my younger sister's Halloween costume. She looked up at me out of nowhere and said, "I shouldn't know how to do this. In my head I am the same age you are. How did I get here?" She was 43 at the time. This, whatever goofiness I am dealing with, has got to be regular.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
My X should light a candle to the god of geography for the miracle that he is still breathing. If he were anywhere near me he would be on a ventilator right now after his behavior today, or rather lackthereof. He was supposed to come over with one of his minions today to do some home repair...and they never showed up. Actually, he was supposed to call another of his minions to come do the work without him, but this one particular minion stepped in and said something to the effect of, "Hey, you don't need to pay somebody to replace a garbage disposal/dishwasher/shower apparatus/window/etc. I'll be in town, we can do it together for free." Groan. Yes and let's clean out this old barn and put on a show while were at it...gimme a fuckin' break.
Why, you may ask, would I rely on my X for home repair when he is the most unreliable person I have ever met in my life? Seriously, the day he becomes reliable I will die from shock. I would tell him this, but it wouldn't make a difference...oh sure, he'd enjoy the idea of it, but that man has absolutely no follow through whatsoever. Alzheimer's patients have their shit more together than he does. It's disappointing really. Anyway, the answer is that I had to go through him because I don't have the money to hire someone to do the bajillion things that NEED to be done around here. They're all little things that wouldn't cost that much to fix individually but all together...? The bill is gonna be impressive I'm sure. The number is pretty close to a bajillion because I have been putting this stuff off for months and in some cases for years. I'm not exaggerating. I have a door that has been broken since 1999. I know it was 1999 because I was three months pregnant at the time. We got in a fight because I didn't want to find out the sex of the baby...and he did...so, like one does during a disagreement, he freaked the fuck out and broke a door. I don't think Dr. Phil was invented yet.
Things have slid slowly downhill with the house since then. Honestly, as it was happening I really didn't care that much. I chalk it up to being a fairly low-maintenance chick, well, that and what's probably a medicate-able amount of depression, but I'm through with that now and the disrepair has reached an unacceptable level. The kids are at an age where they're having friends over; I am at a stage where I would like to have friends over...but the place is literally falling apart and it's embarrassing. It's at the point where "excuse the mess" doesn't cover it. I would have to blindfold guests in the driveway before allowing them in...and sorry but those aren't the kind of parties I'm looking to have.
I was going to be thrifty about the repairs. Part of me is still going to be thrifty because that's how I'm hard wired. I'm not going to go all hog wild with designer appliances and fixtures and such, just update enough to be functional. However, another part of me is going to exact retribution from him in the form of flooring. I am learning to embrace that part of me. I was going to replace the carpet with the same stock, stupid, light brown kind that's already there hidden somewhere beneath juice and other stains that have been accumulating over the last decade. I priced it out two months ago with padding and everything. Now I'm going to replace it with oak colored laminate that will match the kitchen and dining room. Because that's what I want and after all this jackass behavior of his, that's what he's going to give me.
This may sound spoiled. It probably is. And I swear, I never meant to be a gold digger; it's not how I was raised AT ALL. It's funny, I told someone that the other day and she responded with, "You just fell into it?" I love that girl. But really, I did! I just fell into it! As Dr. Phil says (or rather *used to say* I don't know for sure because I don't watch him anymore), "You teach people how to treat you." My X has taught me to treat him like a wallet with legs. If he were capable of being anything else, I would gladly treat him as such. When he has moments of clarity, I try to treat him like a person. Much to my chagrin he slips back into human ATM mode with a frightening degree of alacrity and we have to keep doing this stupid dance. It's exhausting. It's why he's my X. If I thought five years ago I would still be going through this with him, I would have stayed married to him...no, wait, that's wrong...I would surely be widowed by now if that had been allowed to continue. See? Prime example of how geography has kept him alive.
Anyway, neither he nor any one of his minions showed today and he didn't answer or return any of my 20 phone calls between the hours of 1 and 5 pm. I didn't expect him to after the second one, I just wanted to make a point. Sometimes I'm forced into playing the crazy ass bitch of an ex-wife. Trust me, it's not a role I savor. I'm not even that good at it. I didn't leave messages or text him or anything. I should watch more Maury and take notes. Wait, real gold diggers aren't into Maury...I need to DVR Housewives of Orange County.
In keeping with my amateur status...rather than kill him when I see him again, I will get my floor (among other things) and everyone will walk away happy...well, maybe not everyone will be happy, but they will walk away alive.
Why, you may ask, would I rely on my X for home repair when he is the most unreliable person I have ever met in my life? Seriously, the day he becomes reliable I will die from shock. I would tell him this, but it wouldn't make a difference...oh sure, he'd enjoy the idea of it, but that man has absolutely no follow through whatsoever. Alzheimer's patients have their shit more together than he does. It's disappointing really. Anyway, the answer is that I had to go through him because I don't have the money to hire someone to do the bajillion things that NEED to be done around here. They're all little things that wouldn't cost that much to fix individually but all together...? The bill is gonna be impressive I'm sure. The number is pretty close to a bajillion because I have been putting this stuff off for months and in some cases for years. I'm not exaggerating. I have a door that has been broken since 1999. I know it was 1999 because I was three months pregnant at the time. We got in a fight because I didn't want to find out the sex of the baby...and he did...so, like one does during a disagreement, he freaked the fuck out and broke a door. I don't think Dr. Phil was invented yet.
Things have slid slowly downhill with the house since then. Honestly, as it was happening I really didn't care that much. I chalk it up to being a fairly low-maintenance chick, well, that and what's probably a medicate-able amount of depression, but I'm through with that now and the disrepair has reached an unacceptable level. The kids are at an age where they're having friends over; I am at a stage where I would like to have friends over...but the place is literally falling apart and it's embarrassing. It's at the point where "excuse the mess" doesn't cover it. I would have to blindfold guests in the driveway before allowing them in...and sorry but those aren't the kind of parties I'm looking to have.
I was going to be thrifty about the repairs. Part of me is still going to be thrifty because that's how I'm hard wired. I'm not going to go all hog wild with designer appliances and fixtures and such, just update enough to be functional. However, another part of me is going to exact retribution from him in the form of flooring. I am learning to embrace that part of me. I was going to replace the carpet with the same stock, stupid, light brown kind that's already there hidden somewhere beneath juice and other stains that have been accumulating over the last decade. I priced it out two months ago with padding and everything. Now I'm going to replace it with oak colored laminate that will match the kitchen and dining room. Because that's what I want and after all this jackass behavior of his, that's what he's going to give me.
This may sound spoiled. It probably is. And I swear, I never meant to be a gold digger; it's not how I was raised AT ALL. It's funny, I told someone that the other day and she responded with, "You just fell into it?" I love that girl. But really, I did! I just fell into it! As Dr. Phil says (or rather *used to say* I don't know for sure because I don't watch him anymore), "You teach people how to treat you." My X has taught me to treat him like a wallet with legs. If he were capable of being anything else, I would gladly treat him as such. When he has moments of clarity, I try to treat him like a person. Much to my chagrin he slips back into human ATM mode with a frightening degree of alacrity and we have to keep doing this stupid dance. It's exhausting. It's why he's my X. If I thought five years ago I would still be going through this with him, I would have stayed married to him...no, wait, that's wrong...I would surely be widowed by now if that had been allowed to continue. See? Prime example of how geography has kept him alive.
Anyway, neither he nor any one of his minions showed today and he didn't answer or return any of my 20 phone calls between the hours of 1 and 5 pm. I didn't expect him to after the second one, I just wanted to make a point. Sometimes I'm forced into playing the crazy ass bitch of an ex-wife. Trust me, it's not a role I savor. I'm not even that good at it. I didn't leave messages or text him or anything. I should watch more Maury and take notes. Wait, real gold diggers aren't into Maury...I need to DVR Housewives of Orange County.
In keeping with my amateur status...rather than kill him when I see him again, I will get my floor (among other things) and everyone will walk away happy...well, maybe not everyone will be happy, but they will walk away alive.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Dirt Therapy
I am at war with a Mimosa tree. I remember being able to hold it at bay ten years ago, then I got all kinds of pregnant and distracted for a couple of years and it took over the corner of my house. The trunk is now about a foot in diameter and the roots spread at least 15 feet in god knows how many directions. It has claimed the lives of various shrubbery and infringed upon my general driveway area and I am not pleased about this at all. Not at all I tell you. Its reign will soon end; I will see to that myself with hand tools, powdered milk, unreleased anger toward relatives (both blood and legal), and perhaps other means as well. I have dedicated myself to the cause. I call it Dirt Therapy.
Yesterday I started by weeding my flower beds (as now they are that in name only). At first I targeted crab grass, then moved on to some kind of ornamental grass whose name I do not know. I'm sure people pay lots of money for this in stores, but I didn't plant it and it propagates without my bidden authority, so to hell with it, it's out. Midway through that I had a slight change of heart. I saved some and planted it experimentally around my mailbox with the expectation that it's unnatural ability to survive will surpass my innate gift of killing every green thing in my vicinity. We shall see.
Anyway, under the ornamental grass I discovered roots. Mimosa roots. I began to hack away at those with reckless abandon wreaking havoc with a pruning saw and powdered milk (it's kind of a holistic thing, I'm trusting it for now). I did not accomplish much in the short term.
Today I emerged with a more focused plan. I would clear away the grass, uncover the Mimosa roots and follow them to their end. I was methodical about it, patient, perhaps even frightening in a serial killer kind of way. See, I have an agenda; there are two more of these trees in my yard and I want them dead....mmmm, practice. I landed each blow of the trowel with a solid, satisfying *thunk* in the soil. I cleared the grass and each time I struck a Mimosa root I worked the dirt around it, exposing it with murderous intent. I found a trove of daffodil bulbs in the process, a happy surprise. I set those aside for planting later. I found skeletal remains of azaleas and boxwoods claimed too suddenly by the Mimosa and sent them to the street for disposal with a sense of loss. Never again Mimosa. The next shrub to die will be at my own hand, you insidious overgrown weed. The hypnotic fragrance of your delicate flowers does not fool me; your blooms will never drop like bullets on my car again.
Southern August humidity found me bathed in mud and sweat for hours today. Dirt Therapy takes its own time ...and it is welcome.
Yesterday I started by weeding my flower beds (as now they are that in name only). At first I targeted crab grass, then moved on to some kind of ornamental grass whose name I do not know. I'm sure people pay lots of money for this in stores, but I didn't plant it and it propagates without my bidden authority, so to hell with it, it's out. Midway through that I had a slight change of heart. I saved some and planted it experimentally around my mailbox with the expectation that it's unnatural ability to survive will surpass my innate gift of killing every green thing in my vicinity. We shall see.
Anyway, under the ornamental grass I discovered roots. Mimosa roots. I began to hack away at those with reckless abandon wreaking havoc with a pruning saw and powdered milk (it's kind of a holistic thing, I'm trusting it for now). I did not accomplish much in the short term.
Today I emerged with a more focused plan. I would clear away the grass, uncover the Mimosa roots and follow them to their end. I was methodical about it, patient, perhaps even frightening in a serial killer kind of way. See, I have an agenda; there are two more of these trees in my yard and I want them dead....mmmm, practice. I landed each blow of the trowel with a solid, satisfying *thunk* in the soil. I cleared the grass and each time I struck a Mimosa root I worked the dirt around it, exposing it with murderous intent. I found a trove of daffodil bulbs in the process, a happy surprise. I set those aside for planting later. I found skeletal remains of azaleas and boxwoods claimed too suddenly by the Mimosa and sent them to the street for disposal with a sense of loss. Never again Mimosa. The next shrub to die will be at my own hand, you insidious overgrown weed. The hypnotic fragrance of your delicate flowers does not fool me; your blooms will never drop like bullets on my car again.
Southern August humidity found me bathed in mud and sweat for hours today. Dirt Therapy takes its own time ...and it is welcome.
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